


Resurgence

by Automatonation



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, The Force, no canon characters, people being people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22119595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Automatonation/pseuds/Automatonation
Summary: The Jedi and Sith are dead, torn apart in mutually assured destruction that shook the galaxy from the Outer Rim to the Core.  The New Republic and Imperial Remnant have been reduced to minor entities, scrabbling for resources.  And still, life goes on.  Planets band together for protection, forming new confederations for mutual trade and protection, governing themselves as they see fit.  Settlers and scavengers roam the galaxy, seeking their fortunes on war-torn worlds.And, in some places, whispers of people with unusual powers have begun to emerge yet again.  For while the Jedi and Sith are dead, the Force lives on.  And like the tide, it has begun to crest again, flowing through the willing and the sensitive.  Now, free from the dogma of the Jedi and the ravings of the Sith, the Force moves, and a new era begins.





	1. Chapter 1

**The Jedi and Sith are dead, torn apart in mutually assured destruction that shook the galaxy from the Outer Rim to the Core. The New Republic and Imperial Remnant have been reduced to minor entities, scrabbling for resources. And still, life goes on. Planets band together for protection, forming new confederations for mutual trade and protection, governing themselves as they see fit. Settlers and scavengers roam the galaxy, seeking their fortunes on war-torn worlds.**

**And, in some places, whispers of people with unusual powers have begun to emerge yet again. For while the Jedi and Sith are dead, the Force lives on. And like the tide, it has begun to crest again, flowing through the willing and the sensitive. Now, free from the dogma of the Jedi and the ravings of the Sith, the Force moves, and a new era begins.**

  
Space, Rebecca Cantol mused, was never truly boring, but after thirty-five years in space, fifteen of those as the captain of her own freighter, waiting for the Corellian Transit Authority to grant her docking permission was as close as it got. She leaned back in her comfortable pilot's chair, staring out the curved transparisteel viewport of her personal freighter, the _Lastri Sort_ , at the familiar stars overhead. Here and there, the moving shadows of heavy transport ships blotted out the stars as they passed. The running lights of CTA gunships flitted to and fro like glowgnats over a herd of nerf. The triangular bulk of an ancient Imperial Star Destroyer loomed protectively, far over the elliptical, the deep green and red sunburst of lines obscuring huge swaths of weld-scars on the original white paint. Rebecca sighed, watching the slow creep of ships through space and the crawl of stars overhead. Time passed. She listened to the hum of her reactor, felt the minute vibrations as the maneuvering thrusters held her craft – her home – in its designated lane of Corellian Space. Her eyes closed, and one hand stretched out to hover over a button on the hypercom. Moments later, the soft chime of an incoming call was interrupted by the click of the button.

“Captain Cantol here. What can I do for you?” Rebecca kept her tone cheerful and even.

“Ah -” the staticy voice on the other line stammered, thrown off by her quick reply. “This is Patrolman Flynn with the Corellian Transit Authority. Your ship has been randomly selected for screening. Please prepare for boarding and inspection.”

“Gotcha. We're ready when you are.” Rebecca replied pleasantly. “Got an express load of fresh exotic meats for the Glinting Orb Casino and Restaurant.” A pause. “Take your time.”

The patrolman groaned under his breath. “Boarders will arrive in 15 standard minutes. Please remain in your station with your shields down. Any sudden or aggressive movements, sudden power surges, or weapon activations will be met with lethal force.”

“Understood, Patrolman Flynn.” Rebecca replied. “Standing by for boarding.” She released the button on the comm system and dragged her hand over her face. “'Your ship was randomly selected', my ass.” She grumbled, and stood up, stretching, her bright red hair, currently wrapped in a loose ponytail, falling down to her shoulder blades. “Eki! We have visitors inbound, 15 minutes out!”

“Kriff, Mom, not again?” A young girl's voice echoed back.  
“Language!” Rebecca barked, before stretching, going up on tiptoe and reaching for the ceiling. She was petite enough that her fingertips barely brushed the emergency impact padding of the curved passageway. “It's the _Lastri_. the YT-series freighters have a bit of a reputation among smugglers.” One that was well-earned, she had to acknowledge, but it did cause a few hassles. Rebecca came out of her stretch and patted the side of the corridor. “She's a good girl, despite her bad-girl exterior.”

“MOOOM, quit talking about the ship like that!” Eki bellowed, as only a twelve-year-old can. She barreled into the corridor leading to the cockpit, all flailing limbs and waist-length red hair, tied into dozens of thin braids and festooned with a rainbow of small duraplast beads that clacked rhythmically as they hit each other. Like her mother, she was slender, but her skin was an olive color like her deceased father, rather than her mother's pale spacer white. Bright brown eyes peeked out over a slightly unfortunate nose, and her grin was bedecked with primitive braces to straighten her teeth. That was something they had fought over, and hard. Eki had wanted a med-droid to permanently fix her teeth in one surgery once her adult teeth came in, but Rebecca simply couldn't justify the cost, and the disagreement had dissolved into a twelve day screaming fit, inter-spaced by sullen silences. Rebecca had finally resolved it by leaving the ship's balance books on the tiny kitchen table, where she knew her curious daughter would find them, and compare them to the costs of the surgery. Hours later, there was a tear-felt apology, and Eki got her braces.

“Mom, you're zoning out again.” Eki chirped, jumping up and grabbing onto one of the emergency maneuvering rungs set into the ceiling, swinging back and forth, her pink tunic, embroidered with a cartoon Nekk with oversized eyes, snapping with her movements. “You ok?”

Rebecca shook her head. “I'm fine. Just….” she paused, looking for an explanation.

“Memories, huh?” Eki interrupted cheekily.

Robbed of anything dignified to say, Rebecca settled for blowing a raspberry at her daughter. “Can it, you little imp.” Eki giggled, but her mother continued. “You need to be on your best behavior for the CTA inspectors.”

“Mom, I told you that the last one was crooked!” Eki dropped to the floor. “He was gonna plant some spice and frame us for it.”

“That doesn't mean that you can harass him into a nervous breakdown.” Rebecca said firmly, crossing her arms. “Last I heard, he was still in psychiatric care, screaming about the voices.”

Eki winced. “I didn't wanna do that to him, just make him think the ship was haunted.”

“What's the rule, Eki?”

The girl sighed and looked at her feet. “No messing with other sapients' brains without their permission.”

Rebecca smiled and mussed up her daughter's hair. “That's my girl.” She squatted down to meet her daughter’s eyes. “You got a good feeling?”

Eki closed her eyes, her brow furrowing in thought. “Y...” she started, before reconsidering. “Not exactly. There's something coming, something we need to do.” Eki shook her head sharply, her braids snapping as she reached up towards her temples.

“It's ok, Eki. Breathe.” Rebecca soothed. “Let's go sit and talk it out.” She lead her daughter to the den area of their cabin suite, before flipping a switch on the wall. The small couch and table retracted into recessed panels, leaving thick, plush carpeting in their place. The lights dimmed to a soft amber glow, and Rebecca sank into an easy cross-legged position, Eki mimicking her, directly in front of her. “Ok. Talk it out.”

Eki was silent for a moment. “There's a call, I guess. It feels like…. Someone. They're hurting. And angry.” She shivered. “And scared. So scared.” She opened her eyes and looked at her mother. “I want to help him.”

“We can help him.” Rebecca reassured her. “Now, focus on the time.”

“Not now.” Eki murmured. “Soon.” Her eyes were closed again, but darting this way and that under her eyelids. “We'll know when.” Her eyes popped open, and for an instant Rebecca thought she saw a spark of blue light deep inside them, before it faded. “The Force will guide us.” Eki shook her head, shaking off the trance with a grimace.

“And the inspection?” Rebecca prompted.

Eki blinked. “Fine, I guess?” She shrugged, and pushed herself to her feet. “It didn't feel important.”

Rebecca stood up smoothly, and pulled her daughter to her in a brief hug, “Good enough for me.”

The proximity klaxon sounded, a loud blaring noise that echoed through the ship. “Ah, kriff me, the inspectors!” Rebecca yelped, and bolted for the cockpit.

“Language, Mom!” Eki called after her, before collapsing to the floor in a fit of giggles.

Diving into the pilot's seat, Rebecca deactivated the proximity alarm. Skilled fingers flicked on inactive displays, and before long, she saw the hammer-headed CTA Corvette drifting closer on her port, docking tube already extending. With a flick of a switch, Rebecca activated the guide lights on the port side airlock. The _Lastri Sort_ was a YT-4800 special, with a handful of aftermarket customizations to make it a better – and safer – home for the small Cantol family. It possessed the curved hull and distinct forward loading prongs of the YT-Series, but rather than a circle, it was more of an extended lozenge, giving additional cargo space, as well as enough room for a fairly generous cabin suite for Rebecca and her daughter, as well as any guests she should choose to have on-board, while maintaining the wide semi-circle of engines that gave the YT-Series the speed and power it was famous for. The cockpit, rather than being set to one side like several of the previous models in that series, was set into the top of the port loading prong, while the starboard prong sported a transparisteel passenger blister. For protection, the _Lastri Sort_ had an octet of light laser cannon, four on the top and four underneath, all controlled by dedicated droid brains with manual overrides available from the cockpit or passenger blister. When not needed, the cannon stayed recessed under hidden panels on the hull of the light freighter.

The ship shuddered as the corvette bumped the port-side docking ring and latched on. “It's ok, _Lastri_.” Rebecca whispered and patted the console, almost imagining that the hum of the reactor changed pitch at her reassurance. She locked down the controls and composed herself, glancing at the mirrored metal of the security door. Shoulder length red hair, brown eyes jaded with hard living, pale white skin that was starting to get laugh lines around the eyes. A petite figure clad in a snug, utilitarian brown spacer's jumpsuit, complete with protective padding on the torso, knees, and elbows. Brown flat boots gave her a hint of grounding, the thick soles giving her an extra inch, and also containing emergency electromagnets, just in case the grav went out. Rebecca believed in being prepared.

The local intercom buzzed, and she sighed, before stepping out of the cockpit and down the corridor towards the docking ring. Slapping the unlock button, she gave a brief bow to the three figures standing in the airlock. “Welcome to the _Lastri Sort_.” She smiled lightly. It always paid to be polite and friendly to the inspection team. It almost always unnerved them, but not in a way they could call you on. Then she saw who was standing on her ship, and groaned internally.

“Charmed.” The middle figure stated shortly. If Rebecca had to describe him in one word, that would be 'clipped'. The second would likely be 'gray' - Inspector Herman Nal-Rota was a short man, dark skinned, with close-cropped graying hair, and a precise manner that suffused his entire being, from the way he moved, to his gray starched uniform, to his speech patterns. On either side were a pair of looming humans or near-humans in thick gray body armor. The Inspector apparently never went anywhere without them, but Rebecca had never been introduced to them by name. Mentally, she labeled them Goon 1 and Goon 2. “When I heard that the… _Lastri Sort_ … was in the system, I decided that a personal touch would be appropriate.” The man's thin lips twisted in distaste, as they always did when saying the name of the ship.

Rebecca forced herself to give him a friendly smile. “It's always a pleasure to see you, Inspector Nal-Rota.” she lied. She couldn't fault the odious little man for doing his job, but he somehow had it stuck in his head that she had smuggling compartments hidden that he had yet to find, and wouldn't take his continued inability to find them as an answer.

“Hmm.” The inspector stepped in primly. “We shall see.” He glanced at his datapad. “You declared that you were transporting… Exotic meats?”

“Yes. Right this way.” Rebecca led the way to her primary hold, and opened the door, leading into a dark, cavernous room, full of transparisteel tanks filled with various brightly colored fluids. Swimming in the tanks were hundreds of meter-long squid, each with dozens of long, slender tentacles and a pair of large, startlingly human eyes. “Can't say the actual name, but they're known as Mon Cal noodle-squid. They absorb the flavor of the various solutions that they swim in. Big delicacy, from what I gather. Got the order to transport them to the Golden Orb Casino as an express delivery.” Rebecca preened, while an expression of grim determination covered the inspector's face.

Inspector Nal-Rota spent three tiresome hours inspecting the holds, the cabins, the corridors, the cockpit, the escape pods, and maintenance bays, as well as everything else he could think of. When he demanded entry to Eki's room, ostensibly to go through her personal belongings, Rebecca drew the line. “Mr. Nal-Rota.” She stated firmly. “I understand that you have a job, and that job is to detect and detain smugglers.”

“Quite right.” The inspector gritted out. “And when I find what you have hidden, then you will go right along with the rest of those… criminals… directly where you belong.”

“And so you would, in the company of witnesses, force your way into the personal cabin and belongings of a twelve-year-old girl, with the justification that since you have not found any smuggling compartments anywhere else, there must be some in there.” She asked, a hint of ire beginning to peek through her durasteel composure.

Herman's eyes flicked from Rebecca, to the sullen expression on Eki's face, to the statue-like figures of Goon 1 and Goon 2. “Your point, perhaps, is valid.” he grudgingly admitted.

“Inspector Nal-Rota, have I ever been anything other than polite and accommodating for you?”

“No.”

“Have I ever given you any reason to suspect that I am, in fact, a smuggler?”

A long pause, followed by a disgruntled “No.”

Rebecca smiled softly. “Then why do you believe that I still have something hidden, after the eleventh time you have personally inspected my ship?”

The Inspector pinched the bridge of his nose. “The numbers don't add up. How you manage to remain aloft and out of the red, without resorting to illegal smuggling, like 83% of light freighters in Corellian space, or illegal insider trading, like another 5% of the freighters. You don't even have a regular employer acting as a safety net, and yet you always find a load that keeps you fueled up and in space, always moving, always lucky.” He spat. “Your ship's logs keep me up at night.”

Rebecca stared, taken aback. How could she tell him that she got gut feelings that led her from planet to planet, the niche markets with small loads that she just knew how to find, the passengers that fell into her lap – at one point literally, over thirteen years ago. “I tap into a mystical energy field that guides my actions and helps me get the most profitable shipments.” She found her mouth saying.

Inspector Nal-Rota stared at her for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. Eventually, though, the corner of his mouth twitched. “Have it your way.” Was that a smile? “Consider yourself the only honest light freighter within twenty parsecs. Good day to you.” With a curt nod, the inspector strode to the airlock and off the _Lastri Sort_ , Goon 1 and Goon 2 following in his wake.

Once she was certain that he had left the ship, Rebecca sighed and slumped to the floor in relief, leaning back against the curved, padded wall of the ship. Eki padded along to her and sat against the opposite wall. “You ok, Mom?”

“I did it again.”

“They say that it flows through us and guides us.”

“They're dead.”

“That doesn't make them wrong, Mom.” The certainty in Eki's voice was disturbing to her, a placid surety that sounded terribly out of place coming from a young girl.

Rebecca slammed her fist against the floor. “They're ghosts, Eki! They're dead and gone, and I wish they would leave you alone!”

Eki was quiet for a long moment. The silence sat heavily between the pair, almost pushing away the everpresent sounds of a working spaceship.

“I'm sorry, Eki.” Rebecca whispered. “I shouldn't have yelled.”

“It's ok, Mom.” Eki replied. Another long silence. “They scare me sometimes too. Some of them say scary things that don't make sense.”

Rebecca pushed herself to the other side of the corridor, and wrapped an arm around her daughter. “I wish I could see them, give them a piece of my mind.”

Her daughter laughed weakly. “I bet that's why they won't show themselves, not that silly 'your mother has already found her destiny' thing.” She snuggled into her side. “Mama is too scary for the ghost people.”

Rebecca managed to force out a weak laugh. The ghosts that wouldn't leave her daughter alone thought she had found her destiny? Piloting a tramp freighter across half the galaxy, educating her daughter as best she can while trying to keep enough hypermatter and credits to keep them aloft without compromising her morals? As successful as Nal-Rota made her sound, there were months where she had to count out everything to the centicredit, where she had to plot each jump by hand to save every gram of hypermatter, where the two of them survived on rehydrated noodles and synthetic protein paste. “That's right, Eki. I'm too scary for them.”

“And that's a good thing, 'cause the creepy dark one says he used to rule the galaxy.” Eki babbled. “The others don't let him talk too often, though.”

Rebecca's smile grew a little strained. Kriffing Palpatine? Her daughter had Emperor kriffing Sheev Palpatine in her head? Suddenly, the other avenues of research on her personal data pad were looking more and more tempting. She was saved from having to find a response by the sound of an alert chime from the cockpit. “It's time to head towards Corellia, kiddo. Big payday once we get there, too.”

“Yay!” Eki cheered, hopping to her feet. “And that means we can go to a market, right?”

Pushing herself to her feet and walking towards the cockpit, Eki bouncing in her wake, Rebecca smiled softly. “Yes, there's a big open-air market and swap meet a quick speeder ride from the dock. I think we may be able to swing by.” Her daughter bounced and cheered happily, and Rebecca's worry faded. Eki was a good kid, and ever since she had first started talking about the ghosts that liked to talk to her and teach her things, Rebecca had taught her to never take anything they told her at face value, and to check with her before she did anything that they suggested. It disturbed her a bit that her daughter said that some of the ghosts agreed with her about that rule, but the girl's control – and bursts of uncontrolled telekinesis – had improved in leaps and bounds between her spectral instructors and the various meditation and self-control exercises that Rebecca had found. Those same exercises, and getting instructions second hand through her daughter, had helped refine her own gut instincts, and it was getting easier and easier to find opportunities to make a decent living.

Rebecca slid into the pilot seat, Eki taking the copilot's seat and strapping herself in. Rebecca glanced at her daughter. “You ready to navigate?” At the eager nod that sent braids bouncing and beads clattering against each other, she pressed the comm button to open a channel to Corellia Traffic Control. “CTC, this is the _Lastri Sort_ , requesting permission to land.”

“ _Lastri Sort_ , permission granted. Proceed to vector 137.6 for landing zone Theta. You're registered for Dock 843, repeat, 843. Happy landings.”

“ _Lastri Sort_ copies. En route.” Rebecca replied, and clicked off the comm. Eki was typing figures into the nav station, occasionally drawing a route with a stylus. “Got a course for me, sweetie?” She asked. She could likely plot it in her head and dock with her eyes closed, but this was a learning moment. Her da had her in the pilot's seat for basic maneuvering by the time she was six, but Rebecca wasn't going to push her daughter that hard.

Eki nervously flicked the file over to the main screen, and Rebecca looked it over carefully. Not the most efficient route, but simple and fairly elegant. “That's great, Eki.” With a twitch of the controls, Rebecca slid out of her slot in the holding lanes, and smoothly ran the _Lastri Sort_ up to 75% sublight. No point wasting time, now, she had a client waiting.


	2. Chapter 2

On the dreary mining world of Tarbus IV, centuries of mining, smelting, and production have poured so many toxic byproducts into the atmosphere that life is only truly possible within huge shantytowns, protected from the constant downpours of toxic rain by massive duraplast domes. Within those domes, the inhabitants and miners would proudly claim, lived the toughest, most resilient sentients in the galaxy, capable of dealing with any problem, tribulation, or emergency that arose. Hard living and an unforgiving world had seasoned the native near-humans – a stocky, hairless race with pitch-black skin and large light-sensitive eyes – into a gruff, hard-working, and stubborn people. Not particularly inclined towards politics on the galactic scale, the Tarbans kept to themselves, letting aliens govern the corporations that managed the various mines and factories covering the surface of the planet, with the understanding that the true power rested in the powerful unions and guilds, and that the only reason that they weren't in charge was that they couldn't be bothered. As such, if one could look past the constant acid rain, the unbreathable atmosphere, the dreary domed cities with a low standard of living, and the grumpy, insular natives, Tarbus IV was a good place to lie low, far from the galactic scene. 

In a dingy nameless cantina, populated by a mix of miners and foundry workers quietly unwinding after their shifts with large mugs of synthale, a lone human female leaned on the bar, sipping quietly from a glass of clear fluid. It took only a moment's glance to know that she was no native. A poet would have waxed eloquent about flawless porcelain skin and golden hair, tumbling in waves like a field of ripe Dantooine grain, while a lecher would have emphasized healthy curves and a sculpted hourglass figure that promised long nights of little sleep. Certainly, the woman attracted appraising eyes from many of the patrons, but the tense, almost surly pose and furrowed brow, along with the tough, utilitarian clothing that attempted to conceal, rather than flaunt, the body underneath dissuaded the more astute from making a move. 

Mo Anbar was not, typically, a particularly astute individual. The red-skinned Devaronian had fled to Tarbus IV after his indiscretions with a minor gangster's daughter resulted in a remarkably high bounty on certain portions of his anatomy – but not the rest of him. Mo worked days as a loading technician in a minor starport, and had a bit of a reputation as a womaniser, with a taste for human females. His red skin, curved black horns, and pointed teeth lent him an image that resonated with certain common cultural archetypes. A certain type of lady found that quite appealing, and Mo had learned to leverage it. “Hey, baby.” He drawled, leaning on the counter next to the attractive blonde. “What brings you to a place like this?” 

The lady turned slightly to look at him – Mo caught a glimpse of long, black lashes and eyes so blue they almost shone in the dim amber light of the bar – and ruby-red lips turned down in a small frown. “Business.” She turned back to her drink.

“The name's Mo.” Mo interjected. “Mo Anbar.” He gave her his most charming smile, one he had practiced in the mirror and calculated to show a nice amount of fang. “I heard a rumor that an angel from Vega had arrived on-planet, but the stories of your beauty failed to truly convey your magnificence.”

The blonde snorted. “Liar.” She glanced back over him. “How often does that line work?” Her icy tone did little to suppress the sultry alto of her voice.

Mo suppressed the wince, and shifted the charming smile into one that was more friendly. “Often enough it was worth a try.” Plan B. “Get you a drink?”

“Fine.” A final sip emptied the glass, and she tapped a fingernail on the rim, a faint chime that caught the attention of the bar-droid hanging from the low ceiling. Swiveling around the semicircular rail to her position at the bar, the bronze-plated droid focused a single red photoreceptor on her, a pair of dangling three-fingered arms reaching out and retrieving her glass.

“What'll it be, Val?” it grated, the staticy tone of the vocabulator showing its age and lack of maintenance.

The blond tipped her head towards Mo. “My usual. On his tab.” She pursed her lips and whistled, a brief lilting tone that reminded Mo of the astromech units that he occasionally encountered in the docks. “And one for him, on mine.”

The bar-droid nodded, and swiveled away to the far end of the bar.

“You speak droid?” Mo ventured, casually taking a seat on the barstool next to her.

“Yes.” The lady replied, her voice cool. She was staring at the counter, fingers drumming in an odd rhythm, not looking at him.

Mo smiled easily. “That's a handy skill. I only speak Basic and Devaron, with a dash of Huttese.” 

Val didn't look at him. “Devaron.”

“Well, of course! The language of my homeworld.” That he had never actually been to. “ _You have the best ass I have ever seen on a biped, and I look forward to copulating with you._ ” He continued in his 'native' tongue. The rolling polysyllabic words sounded sweet and melodic to most of the ladies of his acquaintance, and Devaron was a rare enough language that as long as he avoided using it with protocol or translator droids nearby, he could say nearly anything he wanted, as long as it sounded nice enough.

Val shot him a glance out of the corner of her eye. “And just what is that supposed to mean?”

“Why, that you are a spectacular beauty, of course.” Mo replied, “and lucky is the man who has your favor.”

A shapely eyebrow rose. “Oh?” Something in her tone sent a thrill of excited terror through the Devaronian. “And you wish to have my… favor.”

“ _Only until the morning._ ” Mo said. “If you were willing to bestow it.”

“Hmm.” Val gave a little smirk. 

The bar-droid came back around, holding two glasses of transparent liquid that sloshed thickly against the tall, narrow tumblers. “Cheers, Val.” It placed the glasses in front of the pair, before darting away towards another patron.

Mo pulled the frosted glass towards him, swirling the container and watching the liquid flow thickly, almost like a syrup. It smelled strongly of alcohol, with a hint of engine coolant and used Bacta. “The hell is this?”

“It's called an Extreme Cranial Trauma.” Val stated with a smirk, lifting the glass to her lips. She drank the entire glass smoothly, her eyes never leaving Mo's until she gently set the empty glass on the counter top, her pink tongue delicately licking her lips with a slow, deliberate motion that made Mo's pants feel uncomfortably tight. “Enjoy.” she purred.

Mo grinned weakly, and lifted the glass. “ _May your pants come off._ ” he toasted, and gulped down the ECT as quickly as he dared. It tasted as foul as it smelled, and clung unpleasantly to his throat as he choked it down, but he managed to finish the glass, slamming it down on the counter. “Deliciouss.” he slurred, the alcohol already hitting his blood stream. He reached out and brushed her cheek with a pair of fingertips. “You're one hell of a woman, Val.”

Slim fingers clamped around his wrist in an iron grip. “Don't call me VAL.” Her eyes were icy, each word as precise and clipped as ever.

“Shorry.” Mo slurred, tugging at his arm. “Thot it wash yore name.”

“My name is Epali Gyn.” the blond woman stated, her face going blank and stony. “And I wish to be left alone now.” She released the Devaronian's arm and turned away.

“Not your name! What the hell wash Val, then?” Mo shouted, pushing himself up from the bar. “I jush wan'd a drink wi' a pretty woman!” He swayed. Something was wrong. Alcohol didn't usually hit him this hard. “Wha' d'juu do?” 

A guttural voice from behind him made Mo spin around, although the room kept spinning for several seconds. “Rapid metabolizer.” A pair of reptilian eyes under a crest of blue feathers blinked at him. “Alcohol hits rapidly, more effective.” A pair of clawed hands grabbed Mo's vest as his legs buckled under him, and he felt himself being dragged to an empty booth. His eyes felt heavy, and the room was blurring out as he was propped up in a booth. “Rest well.” A claw tip flicked his horn, sending a dull throb of pain through his temple. “Dream of horned women.” The guttural voice snickered, before everything faded into darkness.

“Dirty trick, Epali.” The reptilian alien drawled. Easily two meters high at the top of its head, with another decimeter added by a bright blue crest of feathers, it had a long, saurian snout filled with extremely carnivorous looking fangs. Bright yellow eyes with slit pupils darted around the bar, where the other patrons were studiously ignoring the pair. Rust-red scales covered a theropod frame, which was bedecked in a harness and equipment pouches, but otherwise unadorned save for a long dorsal crest of blue feathers that split at the base of the hips into a pair of crests on either side of a long, whipping tail. Reverse-articulated legs ending in long, hooked claws tapped on the floor, while a hand with nimble three-fingered claws dipped into a pouch and flicked a cred-chip at the bar-droid, who shoved over a large mug of blood-red synthale. “Ruk approves.”

“It was the most efficient way to be rid of him.” Epali grumbled. “I don't metabolize alcohol anyway.”

“Efficient.” Ruk bobbed his head, almost birdlike. He took a sip of his ale. “Very efficient. Droid-like, even.” He smirked over at Epali.

“Don't say it like that, Ruk.” The woman growled. “You know I hate that word.”

“What, ashamed?” Ruk took another long gulp of his drink. “No shame. Is heritage!” he gestured expansively at his companion. “Use it. Part of Epali, like tail part of Ruk.” He smirked. “Truth in nature, VAL-58K.”

“Don't call me that, dammit!” Epali hissed, her eyes flashing. 

“Then why designation transponder on?” Ruk asked curiously. “Bar-droid not know otherwise.”

Epali – or rather, the Human Replica Droid designated VAL-58K – blushed. “He was being nice.” Her eyes dropped. “And he threatened to cut me off after the second ECT.”

Ruk laughed, a rumbling roar that triggered the terrified monkey hind-brain of nearly every sapient with primate descent. “How a droid has a drinking problem, Ruk will never understand.” He rumbled, after the silence faded back into nervous conversation.

VAL-58K punched him in the arm, hard enough for Ruk to feel it through his thick hide. “Kriffing hells, Ruk, stop calling me that!” She hissed. “I drink because a pointless habit helps me feel human.”

“Whatever soothes Epali's circuits.” Ruk said softly, patting her shoulder. “Have the job?”

Epali pulled a small data pad from a belt pouch, and with a flick, pulled up a rotating image of a male Zabrak. He looked to be in his mid twenties, but the ring of stubby horns around the crown of his head were oddly chipped in places, and he lacked the tribal facial tattoos commonly sported by most members of the species. “Tornal Aliq. Wanted by the Maldes-Xit Consortium for theft of property, last seen boarding a heavy food freighter on its way here a few months ago.”

“Maldes-Xit Consortium.” Ruk drawled slowly. “Luxury goods and entertainment. Rumors of unsavory practices.” his reptilian eyes glittered. “Rumors of slaves.”

Epali groaned. “Why do I get the feeling that this is yet another job we aren't getting paid for?” She jabbed Ruk in the chest with a finger. “If you keep turning down or failing jobs because of your kriffing moral code, I'm selling your feathers for hyperfuel.”

Ruk clutched at his head in mock horror. “Not the crest! Ruk looks too good to be bald!”

The pair snickered for a moment, before Epali continued. “I showed the picture around the docks, and they said that they thought they remembered a Zabrak day laborer, but nobody could agree on a description.”

“Odd.”

“I thought so too.” Epali flicked and tapped at the datapad. “The interesting thing was, once I compiled all their descriptions, they all had at least once feature in common.”

A fuzzy recording of a native Tarban appeared. “Yeah, I hired a Zabrak. Weird kid. Hard worker, but always snacking. Kept pulling jerky or protein bars out of pouches.” The image shrugged. “He hit his quotas, so I didn't make him stop, but it stood out a bit.” Epali tapped on the screen, and the projection vanished.

“It's not included in his dossier from Maldes-Xit, but Zabrak are not common in this area, and for all the different descriptions, all of them sharing the same odd habit is too much of a coincidence for my tastes.” Epali concluded. “I suspect he has a holoprojector, or is otherwise using some means of disguising himself.”

Ruk tapped his chin in thought. “Background of Tornal?”

“General unskilled labor, from what I can determine. Popped up out of nowhere on a backwater station at 16. Tended to work on the larger freighters doing whatever odd jobs he can find. He was a porter on a cruise liner ran by the Maldes-Xit when he decided to run off with whatever he actually stole.” Epali summarized.

“How disguising, then? Where Tornal learn?” Ruk asked, his crest fluttering and rippling as he thought. He took another sip of his synthale. “Something missing.”

Epali frowned, and looked down at her datapad. “That's all I have on him. We need to draw him out to find out more.”

“Running.” Ruk mused out loud. “Fleeing, more than just Maldes-Xit. Scared, found burrow to rest, ready to flee again.” A short, sharp nod. “Draw out with bait and chance to flee again.”

“You think he's ready to move on.” Epali stated, frowning slightly. It always amazed Ruk how human-like her expressions were, a testament to her programming and design.

Ruk nodded. “Post Job offer, pay in mixed credits and passageway offworld.” 

“That could work.” Epali typed on her datapad for a few moments, her fingers flying unnaturally fast over the screen, before posting the request to a popular public job board. “Done.”

“Good.” Ruk shook his head, twisting from side to side and sending his long blue feathers dancing in the dim light. “See Epali on _Yaruk Rayl_ later?” 

“Yeah, I'll see you on the ship in a couple of hours.” Epali gestured at the bar-droid, who brought her the seventh Extreme Cranial Trauma of the night.

“Don't catch any viruses.” Ruk teased. “Cannot afford another debug.”

“Kriff it, Ruk, that was one time!” Epali spluttered, her fingers tightening around the glass until it creaked.

“That why Ruk warned you!” Ruk shook his finger at her. “Not again.” He chuckled, ducked her slap, and strolled out, tail swaying happily behind him.

Epali downed her drink, grumbling to herself. After a while, she glanced over at Mo Ambar, still unconscious in a booth. Some thoughtful soul had draped an emergency blanket over him, although she suspected they had helped themselves to his wallet first. “ _Best ass he'd seen on a biped_ indeed.” She muttered under her breath. “May have been a creep, but he had good taste.” Whistling astromech profanity to herself, Epali stood up and sauntered out of the bar, drawing the eyes of a solid three-quarters of the patrons. Time to go let off some steam. Beating up organics who thought they had an easy target always left her feeling fresh off the charger, and this planet had a delightful selection of muggers and other scum, if one knew where to look.


	3. Chapter 3

A lone figure, hunched over inside the long, hooded all-weather cloak, a dark scarf pulled across its face hurried quickly through the dark alleys and walkways in one of the slums, deep in one of the shadier portions of Tarbus IV. Ladders, stairs, and rickety walkways weaved back and forth between dingy balconies, and dim amber lights did little to actually illuminate, but rather cast deeper shadows in the thin yellowish fog that filled the bottom of the alleys. Despite the maze-like surroundings and dim light, the cloaked figure moved surely, before eventually coming to the balcony of an apartment in a run-down tenement building. Moving inside the apartment, the figure raised a pair of gloved hands to lower his hood – and froze as a kitchen knife whipped through the air in front of his nose, to thud, vibrating, in the cheap paneling of the room. 

“Relax, Kaya, it's me.” Tornal Aliq soothed, and lowered his hood, unwrapping the scarf from around his face as he shut the door behind him. His amber eyes were concerned as they flicked around the dark room, taking in the old furniture, stained walls, and battered cabinets of the one-room apartment before landing on the crumpled figure cowering in a dark corner. The Zabrak moved slowly and carefully, taking off his robe and draping it over an empty chair. Underneath, he wore a simple grey tunic and pants, with calf-high work boots and a belt with several different sizes of pouches. A combat vibroblade was tucked into the small of his back, partially concealed by his tunic, but he kept his hands carefully clear. Despite being of only average height, he had the thick, muscular build of one who lifted large objects for a living, covered in a noticeable, but not grotesque layer of fat. “I'm back from work.”

“T-Tornal?” The slight figure in the corner whispered. She shifted, and the dim light caught a pair of large blue eyes, the pupils dilated, set in a lovely, pea-green face. “They're coming for me.” Kaya rocked back and forth, her long, tattooed lekku twitching nervously.

Sithspit. She was coming down again. “Kaya, we're safe here. Nobody knows we're here.” Tornal knelt beside the shaking Twi'lek, watching her eyes and hands carefully. Kaya was a marvel with a blade, and not too shabby in hand-to-hand combat, but the back-alley spice made her… unpredictable. He wrapped his arms around the thin girl, and with a grunt, scooped her up to lay her down on the futon along one side of the small apartment.

“Sorry.” she whispered, reaching up and running her fingers along his face. “I had to see. I knew, but I had to see.”

“Your visions?” Tornal asked quietly. He had 'stolen' Kaya from where she had been enslaved as an entertainer on the resort starcruiser where he had been working, after she cornered him and begged him to take her away. The spice made the visions stronger, let her see fleeting images – if she was able to pick them out of the hallucinations. 

“They come. The Monster and the Dead one. They come for us.” Kaya stated with absolute certainty. She curled up, tucking her knees under her chin, the tight one-piece jumpsuit that she wore wrinkling and stretching over her slim dancer's body. Tornal sat down by her head, and she scooted up, resting her head in his lap. The Zabrak absently fished a protein bar out of a pouch and started nibbling on it. “I see them in the shadows waiting, lurking, watching, hunting.” Her voice was a low monotone. “Hunters with hunters behind.” A shudder. Tornal stroked one of her lekku gently. “A bloody beast and a pretty face with nothing beneath, as we spin and flee and run, always behind, closer and closer.”

“How did they find us?” Tornal asked gently. 

“Scents and trails and crumbs and questions, so many questions.” Kaya mumbled, her eyes drifting closed. “Where do you trap the Gilterfisk, dear Kaya?” she asked in a singsong voice. “By its lair and paths, sweet mother.” Tornal waited patiently, but after her drowsy reply to herself, Kaya said no more, her light breathing deepening as she fell into a deep slumber.

“Sleep it off, kid.” Tornal whispered. Kaya wasn't sure exactly how old she was, but couldn't be much older than about 18 standard. She'd been a slave her entire life, trained as a dancer, companion, body guard, and courtesan, with drugs and mental conditioning to keep her loyal to her master. Tornal suspected that it was only her odd abilities that let her break free long enough to beg him for help. For all her terror at the time, once he agreed, she had snapped into a coldly clinical persona that exuded terrifying competence as they disabled the trackers on a shuttlecraft and fled the Pulsar Dancer cruise liner, before shattering into a screaming, trembling mess once they were safely away. Now, a year and a half later, she had long periods of normality, but Tornal had to stay alert for the little incidents like the one today, where Kaya got a hold of cheap spice, cut with whatever the dealer could find, and had visions and paranoid fits until she came down. He took a bite of his protein bar. At least she hadn't used her powers – he ruthlessly stomped on the little voice inside that said magic – to surround him with knives, like he had experienced on a routine basis in their first few weeks on the run together.

Concentrating and gritting his teeth, Tornal raised a hand towards the bed on the opposite wall, clenching with his fingers as he focused on the pillow. Come! He ordered, and slowly, the pillow started jerking and floating towards him. It was hard, not to be angry at his slow process, especially when he knew that when he did get angry, it was so much easier. But with his anger, came wrath, and lust, and all the parts of himself that reminded him of home, so he pushed them away, and forced himself to stay calm as he bundled the feelings away again. The pillow floated into his hand, and he gently maneuvered Kaya's head onto it, before standing up and stalking over to the battered datapad that they shared. He didn't turn on the lights, he could see easily in the dim light from outside. Flicking on the datapad with one hand and holding his protein bar with the other, Tornal quickly navigated to a job board on the local datanet. As he ate, he slowly scrolled through the job listings, looking for something that would let them get off-world.

Hours later, he was ready to quit and get some sleep, when he saw a posting for a cook on a medium-sized freighter bound for some planet he had never heard of. The pay was minimal, but it offered room and board, a small cabin as part of the wages. What caught his eye was a single sentence. “Lodging for dependents available.” He whispered out loud. Kaya couldn't hold down a job, and he had to smuggle her onto the freighter here. If they could just… walk onto the ship, claim her as his – his heart leapt into his throat and he had to choke down bile at the thought – his lover, then they could be safe. Free to work and wander. Freedom… Tornal smiled gently at the thought. Maybe this time, it could actually work. He fired over an application, and got a response within minutes with a dock number and a time to meet tomorrow afternoon. He checked the chrono and winced. This afternoon. Rest sounded really nice right now. Yawning, Tornal laid down in the creaky bed, before glancing over at Kaya, still sleeping soundly on the futon. The sense of gentle certainty that had led him away from Dathomir, had led him to Kaya, and had nudged him in smaller, more subtle ways, lulled him to sleep within moments.

~~~

Elsewhere on the planet, a pair of yellow-orange eyes opened, in a dark room that smelled of coppery blood. “Found you, pet.” a husky contralto whispered. “No more running from your Mistress.” Ignoring the weak, rattling gasps of the other inhabitant of the small room, the speaker rose to her feet in a single predatory movement, before lashing out in a sharp kick that crushed the throat of the migrant whose guts she had spilled for her scrying. “Apprentice!” she snapped.

“Yes Mistress!” a younger voice answered from the next room, a faint quiver threatening to rise up before being ruthlessly squashed before Mistress could call her out on it. 

“Ready a transport. We leave at dawn.” Holding out a hand, a coiled whip of wire and crystal thudded into the shadowed figure's grasp. “We're going hunting.”

“Understood, Mistress.”


	4. Chapter 4

Morning dawned, the bluish gleam of light from Tarbus shining weakly through the ever-present storm clouds, gradually brightening enough to be seen through the corroded domes covering the slum-city. As the bluish light grew brighter, the orange street lights cut out, yielding a daybreak that was heralded more by a shift of color and tone than by brightness. Tornal woke instantly, his eyes cracking open, just wide enough to survey the room, before sitting up and stretching. A few minutes of calisthenics, a quick dash into a cheap sonic shower in the stained fresher to blast away the night sweat from nightmares suppressed and unremembered, and he was awake and ready to face the day. He dressed in his best tunic and slacks, grooming carefully, before kneeling by the side of Kaya's futon. “Good morning.” He murmured, and Kaya's bloodshot eyes snapped open. A raised forearm deflected her instinctive slap, before consciousness arose, and she blushed a darker green. 

“M'n'n” she croaked, sitting up, pulling the blanket around her with one shaking hand. Tornal handed her a bottle of water, still sealed. She cracked it open, and took a few large gulps. “Morning.” She whispered, not meeting his eyes.

“I'm not mad.”

“Disappointed.” Kaya muttered, her lekku writhing in discomfort. She always had headaches when she came down. Tornal fished a bottle of painkillers out of a belt pouch, popped it open, and tipped a pair into his hand. Kaya's eyes darted to the pills, and an instant later, they were floating into the air to land in her open mouth. He had to suppress the flash of envy at her easy grasp of telekinesis, but it went the way of his other strong emotions. She had her strengths, just as he had his. “I shouldn't have-”

“I'm not disappointed, either.” Tornal interrupted, his voice mild. “I understand. You felt like you needed the spice.”

“Not the spice.” Kaya whispered. “I needed to see.” 

“I know. The spice makes it easier.” Tornal moved slowly to sit beside the Twi'lek girl. Carefully, making sure she saw the movement, he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into a tender hug. “I just worry about you. Even if it makes it easier to see your visions, it's still not healthy.”

Kaya leaned into the hug, but he could still feel the tension in her muscles. “We're leaving today.” she stated softly. It wasn't a question. 

“Found a job on a freighter headed off-world. It doesn't pay much, but it allows me to bring a -” he hesitated a bare moment, searching for a word that wouldn't make his stomach roil “-companion.” 

Closing her eyes, Kaya sank deeper into herself. To Tornal's senses, she seemed to flicker, dimming and brightening, before her presence surged around the pair of them. Her eyes snapped open. “I'm going with you.” She stated firmly, a hint of steel lacing through her voice. “We leave today, by will or by force. Hunters and hunters, Some to capture, others to consume, but we shall not be on this planet another day.” She stood in one limber movement, before rushing to get dressed in something more presentable.

Tornal nodded and stood, heading to the small kitchen. He had learned to trust Kaya, when she had that confidence, that certainty of thought and action. Her connection to the Force, in those moments of clarity, was far deeper than his own. He moved to the kitchen, and started throwing together a quick breakfast. He had a feeling they would need the energy. 

Kaya emerged from the fresher minutes later, dressed in a sleeveless forest-brown top that bared her toned midriff and arms, but clung tightly to her chest and had a high, tight neck that went almost to her chin. Her tights were a deep green that contrasted well with her light green skin tone, and clung to her legs like a second skin. Dark brown calf-high boots with a noticeable wedge heel concealed a pair of vibroblades, and she shrugged on a long trench-coat in the same color that Tornal knew hid at least a dozen more of varying sizes. It took the work of only a few minutes to gather their meager belongings into a pair of large duffle bags, and by the time Tornal finished making a breakfast of fried meat substitute and powdered egg sandwiches, and packed the remaining kitchenware, Kaya was ready to leave. 

Passing the Twilek her breakfast, Tornal scanned the small apartment one last time. It had been their residence for months, but it wasn't home, just a place to lay their heads. Still, he was a little sad to leave. Nodding to Kaya, he shrugged on his hooded cloak, grabbed the duffle full of his belongings, and stepped back out onto the balcony, where the future beckoned him with pale blue-white light. The Zabrak smiled around his sandwich. Things were looking up.

The pair walked in silence for several minutes, weaving their way from balcony to balcony, across bridges and down ladders, until they reached ground level inside a dark alley, just outside a run-down commercial center close to where the freighter was docked. In the shadows, Tornal lowered his hood, and concentrated, focusing on change. Gritting his teeth at the stinging sensation, the Zabrak gathered the Force and twisted at the cells in his skin in broad swaths, turning them dark, in an imitation of the intricate facial tattoos that were the most common feature that people noticed about his species. Today, it was long vertical stripes, wide across his cheekbones and narrowing as they went up his brow and chin, subtly changing the shape of his face, and making his amber eyes seem to blaze from the contrast. The technique couldn't be maintained for too long, the damage done to the skin cells made them die quickly and peel off in strips after a few hours, but it was sufficient to distract from his lack of true tattoos. 

Kaya carefully looked over his efforts, before smiling. “They look great! I almost didn't recognize you!” She gave him a thumbs up, and Tornal grinned, letting her happiness buoy him up. Something was happening. He wasn't nearly as keenly attuned to the future as Kaya, but he could sense that something was coming, something important, and he needed to stay on course. 

Tornal rummaged around in a belt pouch and grabbed a strip of nerf jerky – the real kind, not the cheap reconstituted meat product that he usually settled for – and bit into it. He needed the energy. “Thanks. Need to look my best for this one.” Concentrating, he wove his energies around him in a subtle way, one that encouraged people to not care too deeply about his appearance, and made his tattoos stand out even more strongly in their minds, before tying it off in a mental knot that he could leave at the back of his mind. 

The pair left the alley, merging into the meager foot traffic that was starting to wander the streets, heading to the open-air bazaars and shops that surrounded the public spaceports. The domed cities of Tarbus IV were surrounded by large airlocks that allowed freighters to enter the domes, have the toxic or acidic rain flushed away by vacuum and cleaner droids, and then granted access to the hangars and loading zones that all life on the mining world depended on. The commercial districts were built around those hangars, with residential skyscrapers filling the higher middle areas of the domes. Tornal was heading towards Dock 5, a smaller dock, which catered to light and medium freighters carrying food and other consumable goods. Tarbus IV paid a premium for fresh fruit, livestock, and entertainment, and the packed streets and maze of buildings around the dock were as busy as any festival when a fresh shipment arrived. 

By Tornal's reckoning, it had been a couple of days since the last shipment, and while the jabber of trade and the smell of cooking meat filled the air, the crowds were thinning, a more subdued, and the flash and enthusiasm of the traders had faded to rote business. He shed his cloak, stuffing it into the duffle bag. It would stand out more here, anyway. He and Kaya made their way along a street lined with half-empty fruit and produce stands, avoiding flimsiplast food wrappers strewn in the gutters. An Aqualish manned a lone food cart, adding an undertone of frying meat and a slight burnt scent to the scene, but a look at the skewered, charred lumps of some unknown amphibian had him moving away quickly. 

It took only a few more minute's walk to reach Dock 5, a massive building with high walls and an open roof, full of berths for ships of varying size, and the pair entered quietly through the massive arch in the stone walls, wide enough for a quartet of speeders to go side by side. There were a handful of spacers and mechanics working on ships, but for the most part, the dock was deserted. The sensation of [I]happening[/I] was growing stronger. Tornal felt his palms sweating. The back of his neck itched. He glanced at his companion. Kaya looked greener than usual, her eyes darting around frantically, lekku twitching. “She waits! The Dead One!” She muttered.

“Sithspit.” Tornal cursed, and turned around, intent on fleeing. He froze, paling. Standing in the wide entrance of the dock was a pale woman, slender and tall, wearing a mixture of animal hides and bones, with long, high-heeled boots that reached up to her thighs. Her head was shaved bald, save for a topknot of pitch black hair that hung down to her back. She was harsh and cold, lips a bloody red, and eyes that blazed yellow-orange from black-stained eye sockets. Tornal gulped, and involuntarily took a step back. The eyes flashed, and Tornal felt her presence burst forth, grasping and clawing across his senses, like the clawed tendrils of some foul sea beast. His old mistress was here.

“Tornal Aliq.” The Mistress purred, stalking forward, darkness in her wake. “You've led me on a merry chase, boy.” She licked her lips. “You are fortunate that I do so love the hunt.” A throaty chuckle. “You may survive to serve me again.”

“Kaya, run.” Tornal whispered frantically. He glanced around, stepping backwards slowly. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, some alien like a large feathered reptile watching curiously, head tilted, tail lashing back and forth. He glanced back at The Mistress. She was closer, looming over him, even though she was shorter than him, even in heels. Long-trained experience and fear made him cringe backwards. Beside him, Kaya shifted her hands in her pockets, before blurring into motion, a pair of humming silver vibroblades arcing towards the nightmare from his past. 

The Mistress flicked her fingers dismissively, and the blades stopped, trembling, in mid-air. A delicate eyebrow raised. “How curious. You have a little pet as well.” Another flick of the fingers, and she overwhelmed Kaya's control, sending the blades spinning back towards the Twi'lek girl, leaving a quartet of light scratches, one on either side of the base of her lekku, leaving her screeching in agony, before the pair of knives swooped around to rest, hovering, the tips lightly brushing Tornal's temples. “Or perhaps a little mistress instead?” 

“No.” Tornal grunted, pushing away at the knives with his mind, but his terror sapped at the calm he needed to control the knives, and if he were to tap into his fear….. He shuddered, bile rising in his throat.

“No, not a mistress, then?” The Mistress grinned, licking her lips again. “Such a shame, you were always so sweet, so… giving.” She snarled. “So WEAK, but as a man should be, subservient to the nightsisters.” The snarl shifted into a chuckle. “And then you grew a spine, and rebelled enough to run away.” Closer and closer, darkness closing around her with every click of heels on duracrete, pale white skin going bone-white and cold, so cold. “I couldn't have that.” She was only meters away now, and his eyes caught on the lash of crystal and wire hung coiled on her slender waist. “I can taste your fear, pet. All you need is a little reminder of your place.”

“Ahem.” The voice was a clear contralto, a deliberate clearing of the throat. “I hate to interrupt your foreplay, ma'am, but this is a public area, and the Zabrak is a wanted criminal.” Tornal's head snapped over towards the voice so quickly he felt a momentary twinge in his neck, the vibroblades scraping against his horns. The speaker was a spectacularly attractive blonde human woman, wearing casual tan pants and a white blouse, her right hand hanging casually by a leather holster strapped low on one hip. “Epali Gyn, bounty hunter. Please lower the knives and step back so we can take him into custody.” 

The Mistress tilted her head curiously. “What are you?” 

“A bounty hunter collecting her mark.” Gyn replied flatly. 

Tornal felt a tugging at his sleeve, and glanced at Kaya. She was staring at the bounty hunter, her Lekku twitching, beads of red blood dripping from the scratches left by her knives. “The Dead One is here.” She whispered. “The wrathful one who stinks of death, and the one who is dead, yet walking, a hollow doll. Shadows hid the wrathful one, blurred the edges.” Blue eyes went out of focus. “Not dead. Empty.”

“I don't care about your career.” The Mistress snarled at Epali. “What are you?” She frowned, one hand coming up to her temple. “Why can't I sense you?”

The bounty hunter shrugged. “Not my problem.” She gave a smile that was entirely devoid of mirth. “Now, step away from my mark, and stop whatever you're doing that's controlling those knives.”

“I think not.” The Mistress made a sharp gesture, and the knives darted away from Tornal, hurling themselves at Epali. There was a blur of motion, and two blaster shots rang out, red bolts of light knocking the knives out of mid-air in a spray of molten metal. The heavy blaster pistol was steady as a rock, pointing directly at the Mistress at the end of the smooth movement.

“Unwise. Pursuant to interplanetary bounty hunter codes and regulations, I am now authorized to deal with you as I see fit, since you have attacked me in the process of a legal arrest.” The bounty hunter's head tilted to the side slightly, her face eerily still. “I would advise you to stand down.”

With a snarl, the witch's hand snapped down to the handle of the whip hanging at her waist. “Words, words, words.” She sneered. “And what are you going to do about it, little huntress?”

Epali fired her blaster, and time seemed to slow to a crawl. Tornal watched as the Mistress twisted out of the way of the bolt, pulling the whip from her waist. A rope of crackling red energy covered the wire and crystal, and she snapped the lightwhip at the blonde huntress, who dodged, tucking into a roll and coming out firing. 

“Run!” Tornal barked, turning and bolting, tugging Kaya in his wake, the scream of blaster bolts and the snapping and crackling of the lightwhip echoing in the broad hangar, before skidding to a stop. The reptilian alien he had seen previously was standing in the road behind them, blaster carbine held loosely in a pair of talons, but still pointed in their direction.

“Tornal Aliq.” The reptile hissed. “Ruk recommends you surrender to custody.” His eyes visibly darted to the pair of fighting women behind them. “Protective custody.”

Tornal glanced at Kaya, whimpering beside him, back to the bounty hunter, and then his attention was drawn to the towering rage of his old Mistress. There really wasn't any question of which was better. “You caught me. Where do I go?”

“Behind me.” Ruk snarled, large fangs baring as he lifted the carbine to his shoulder, aiming behind the pair of fugitives. Hurrying out of his firing line, Tornal moved to the cover of a large metal crate, a few meters away, before turning to watch the fight. 

Surprisingly, the blonde bounty hunter was holding her own, staying just out of range of the lightwhip, but she couldn't land a shot on the Mistress, every blaster bolt deflected by an arc of the whip or dodged casually. She was being pressed backwards gradually, the dark-side witch staying just within range of the whip, never truly letting her disengage. Tornal knew from the Mistress's expression that she was enjoying herself, relishing the challenge of an opponent she couldn't truly sense. That would pass, and soon. Ruk opened fire at the witch, firing tight groups of three to five bright blue blaster bolts, aiming at extremities, or bracketing her for shots from Epali. The lightwhip left searing streaks of red light as it shielded its mistress, the carefully banked amusement and anger surging into a burst of utter wrath.

“Look out!” Kaya shrieked, but it was too late. With a lunge and a crack of the whip, the Mistress sent Epali's blaster – and her right forearm – flying, sparks and molten metal spinning off the limb in a gross parody of a firework. Was her arm a prosthetic? The bounty huntress lunged after the blaster, swearing loudly, and Ruk switched over to full automatic, laying down a stream of suppressing fire in an attempt to drive the witch back from his ally, but the damage was done. A second crack of the whip, and the beautiful woman's right eye was gone, a mass of scorched black flesh in its place. She slumped to the ground, motionless. 

The Mistress stalked forward, and threw her hand forward, fingers clenched and claw-like, at Ruk. He dropped his blaster, scrabbling at his throat, suddenly unable to breath. “What a shame.” She purred. “Clever tricks and tactics, all for a little coward, only to end in a pitiful death.” The forcewitch walked up to Epali's still form, kicking her onto her back. From Tornal's vantage point, he could see something glinting from inside the wound on her face. Metal? “And the pretty little huntress had such a nice trick as well, hiding from my senses.” Her eyes met Tornal's, a vicious little grin promising pain. “Wasted on my pet.” She shrugged, and stepped over the prone form of the bounty hunter.

Epali's remaining eye shot open, and delivered a devastating punch to the side of the Mistress's knee with her remaining arm, the joint going sideways with an audible snap of bone and tendon. The Mistress opened her mouth to scream, Ruk dropping to the ground with a gasp of breath as her concentration slipped, and Epali gave another powerful blow to her solar plexus as she crumpled to the ground, knocking the breath out of her. The wounded bounty huntress lunged to her feet, and a swift kick to the temple robbed the witch of consciousness. “Dirrrrective: Stop monologuing, b-b-b-bitch.” she slurred, before shaking her head and tapping her temple a couple of times. She stalked over to the remains of her arm and snatched it, as well as her blaster, from the ground, stowing the weapon in its holster. Ruk pushed himself to his feet, massaging his throat. Epali's head snapped over to him, the frozen expression on her face softening. “Are you dam- alright?” she asked.

Ruk grimaced, before nodding with a wince. “Ruk fine.” He croaked, before pointing at the crate where Tornal and Kaya were hiding. “Surrendered.” Epali's gaze snapped towards the pair. Something about her body language was simply inhuman, now. The stump of her arm, just below the elbow, occasionally sparked. 

Rising from where he stood half-crouched behind the crate, Tornal carefully raised both hands in the air. “I definitely don't want to fight.” Kaya rose, imitating him, although he could feel her focus as she considered telekinetically hurling another pair of knives. “I owe you a favor – If she is here, she has been hunting me since I escaped Dathomir.”

Ruk peered at the pair, his nostrils flaring, before waving a talon at Kaya. “Stolen property?” he croaked. 

Tornal gritted his teeth. “They would call her that, wouldn't they? She was a slave on the _Pulsar Dancer_ , and I helped her escape.”

The reptilian bounty hunter nodded. “Suspected.” A lip curled, displaying a large number of sharp fangs. “Scum.” he spat, and winced, rubbing at his throat again. 

Kaya nudged Tornal's side. He glanced over at her, and at her nod, relaxed slightly. “You're not turning us in.” He stated certainly. “We would have been stunned and bound already if you were.” Turning to Epali. “Thank you so much, Miss Gyn. I don't know how you managed to surprise her, the Mistress-” Tornal stopped, gagging. “Mi-” 

“Are you a-a-alright?” Epali asked, wincing at the odd stutter in her voice.

Tornal grimaced. He didn't really want to get into this, but now, with his former Mistress lying unconscious on the ground… “I was a slave. On Dathomir.” He muttered. “We would be… punished… if we used her name.” 

Epali's expression softened. “I understand.” 

Tornal looked at her, the blackened synthetic flesh and glints of a metallic eye socket, a ruined mass of melted components that should have been excruciatingly painful ignored with a soft smile that he couldn't help but return weakly. “Her name was Ma-” He gulped. “Maliss. I don't know if it was her real name, but that was what her friends called her.” 

“Maliss.” Ruk growled. “Stupid name.” He sniffed deeply, glaring at the crumpled form of the Nightsister. His voice was raspier, and he coughed harshly after speaking. Epali shot her partner a look of concern.

Much to his surprise, Tornal found himself snickering. “It really is.” The snickering exploded into full-blown laughter, a shadow lifting that he hadn't even known was on his mind. “Maybe that's why she insisted on Mistress!” Turning back to Ruk, Tornal smiled. “Would you like me to take a look at your throat? I've been trying to study medicine, and I have a minor talent for healing.”

Ruk stared at the Zabrak for a long moment, before nodding briefly, tilting his head to the side in an odd movement that exposed his throat, without tipping his head up or taking his eyes off his former quarry. Tornal stepped forward, pulling a small med-kit from a belt-pouch, and gently started probing at the injured area. The red scales on Ruk's neck were smooth and slightly warm to the touch, surprisingly, but he could feel the slight swelling and bruising underneath. He closed his eyes, and opened his mind, calming himself, and reaching out to truly see the wound. In his mind's eye, muscle, cartilage, blood, and bone drew themselves out in perfect detail, fiber by fiber. Here and there, the residue of his former Mistress's wichcraft left black stains and torn, strained muscle. Tornal let his thoughts dwell on his compassion, his gratitude for Ruk's understanding, and Epali's sacrifices, and felt his power rising within him. He let it flow through his fingertips, soothing and cool, like fresh spring water, and watched in satisfaction as Ruk's injuries slowly started to heal. “Is that better?” 

  
Working his jaw and swallowing convulsively, Ruk makes an odd gesture with a three-fingered talon, before trilling out a long series of tweets, whistles, and growling chirps. Epali glanced at him, and made an inquiring noise in the same language. Ruk shook his head, and turned back to Tornal, his expression rigid and unreadable. “How did you do that?” 

“My Mi- Maliss called it magic.” Tornal said softly. “But I think it may be the Force.”

“You think you're a Jedi.” Epali deadpanned. 

Tornal shook his head. “No, definitely not a Jedi. They're all dead.” He paused for a moment. “I think I could have been one, though.” Images flashed through his mind, a blur of robes and blazing swords of blue and green light, but he shook them away. “No, I just want to help. To do anything I can to keep from being like her.” 

Ruk glanced over at Epali, then back at Tornal, his yellow reptilian eyes boring into the Zabrak. Finally he nodded. “Good.”

The Force _thrummed_ like the string of a massive harp, and Tornal and Kaya both stagger. His gut sinking, Tornal turned to where Maliss laid, only to spot a hooded figure stooped over her unconscious form. A black cloak flares like wings, and then, in a flash of purple light and a sickening twist of space, the pair disappear.

"Ah, _sithspit_." Tornal spits. "We need to go, Kaya."

Ruk nods. "We will take you." The alien's crest of blue feathers twitches.

"W-w-what." Epali's single remaining eye glares at her partner.

"Ruk offered protective custody." The saurian explains. "Ruk's honor."

The blonde gives an exhausted groan. "Fine." She examines the stump of her arm, still sparking slightly. "N-need repairs anyway."

The reptilian bounty Hunter turned to Tornal, eyes glinting. "Follow Ruk."

Gulping, Tornal nodded. Anywhere is better than here, especially with Maliss on the loose.


	5. Chapter 5

“After the fall of the short-lived Galactic Empire and the collapse of the New Republic,” The Educational droid droned, “it took only a decade for Corellia to regain its long-held independence.” The dark green protocol droid stiffly waves a hand at the holodisplay at the front of the class, and the flickering light shifts into an image of the massive dockyards that sprawled over Corellia's southern continent, fingers of steel reaching high into the atmosphere and clutching at the massive sparking pieces of enormous capital ships in early stages of construction. As the class watched, a huge vessel with a vertical bow like an enormous mining pick slowly begins to lift into space under the power of sixteen stubby tugs, tractor beams glowing from the effort from lifting the massive capital ship. “Skilled Corellian engineers and ship designers improved the sub-standard designs of the Empire to create the Corellian Defense fleet, headed by the Star Dreadnaught, _Gem of Coronet_.”   
  
A date, some forty years prior, flickers onto the bottom of the holodisplay, as the _Gem of Coronet_ 's engines blaze into life, blue ion emissions flaring from the huge cluster of engines at the stern. The turbolaser turrets covering the three-kilometer-long vessel twitch and rotate through testing sequences as systems come online, and the capitol ship pulls away from its tug escorts under its own repulsors, before rising higher and higher to meet a quartet of green-striped Star Destroyers, the smaller, triangular vessels settling into an escort formation, before they vanish into hyperspace. “Several surrounding systems flocked to Corellia's banner, and now, we stand proud as the head of the Affiliated Corellian States, a loose confederation of thirty-seven systems.” The teaching droid turned sharply, servos whining. “Master Marko.”  
  
In the back of the classroom, Jek Marko jerked awake from where he slumped at his desk, chin propped on his hand. The class tittered, human and non-human chuckles filling the room. He blinked a couple of times, brown eyes that match his short-cropped hair coming into focus. “Yes, M8?”  
  
M8-L13 tilts its head slightly. “Your biosigns indicate that you are experiencing significant levels of fatigue. Are you well?” The teaching droid seemed more alive somehow, now that it's not repeating its scripted lesson.  
  
“Fine.” Jek grunted, heat rushing to his face. More snickers from the class. Jek's eyes dart to Warra, the Aqualish girl in the next row. Her eyes are gleaming with joy – he can practically taste her amused malice. “I'm fine.” He repeated, with all the stubbornness of his fourteen years.  
  
Disciplinary algorithms click into place, and M8-L13 shook its head. “Then I shall have to deduct a quarter-percent from your final grade, for a lack of attention.” Yellow photoreceptors flicker. “Logged. You have a total of 8.75% deductions from your final grade.” Cold robotic eyes lock onto Jek. “Are you ready to continue?”  
  
“Yeah.” Jek muttered, then tried to vanish inside his jacket. His classmates’ attention drifts away from him as the teaching droid continued its lesson, and he takes a deep breath. He did have a late night last night, but the doc he found on the local holonet so many months ago – and the exercises it contained – were so interesting.   
  
A slightly wicked grin that had caused a couple of his classmates to quietly swoon in the past flitted across his handsome features. Brown eyes drift shut, and he calls on his embarrassment at being called out in class, his boredom with the lesson he learned a long time ago, all the lingering frustrations without name or cause, and pulls them into a little bundle of frustration. _'Emotions are the fuel'_ , whispered a tiny internal voice, echoing from the document he found so enthralling. _'Feed your flames with them, stoke the fire, and reach outside of yourself.'_  
  
With the fires of his fears and embarrassment, the boy wove the mental image of a fat mantispider – a ten-legged arthropod with sharp, sickle-like pincers on its first two pairs of legs – and focused until it appears in his mind's eye. With a nudge, the little illusion scuttles under Warra's desk and starts to scale the long folds of the girl's robe-like dress. A bead of sweat trickled down Jek's forehead, but he ignored it, pushing his fear of the Aqualish's gang of school-yard bullies into the illusion. The mantispider reaches her knee, and with a final push, Jek added the sense of touch to the illusion. As the bug scuttles into Wak's lap, mandibles twitching and dripping venom, she glanced down, and bellows in fear and anger. The Aqualish exploded out of her desk, sending it flying into the next row in a tangle of shrieking metal, before stomping on the bug that seemed to dance around her boots.   
  
The classroom erupted into a near riot, students from half a dozen species clamoring and yelling, and Jek drops the illusion, a tired smile on his face. It took nearly half an hour for M8 to get the class under control, but by that time, it's time to go home. Jek ambled out of school, datapad stowed in a battered backpack, weaving in and out of the mass of students, ignoring everyone, drawing himself in from the press of bodies and minds, excitement and the heady school-age sense of freedom battering him like waves on the beach. As the doors of the squat school building – thick blast doors that seem more appropriate for a bunker than a place of learning – slide open in front of him, Jek slips out the narrow gap and breaks into a run.  
  
It's too early to go home, but wandering feet and a vague sense of wanderlust led him to the open-air Mon Cal market. The fish-featured sapients had colonized an inland sea here on Corellia after their homeworld was hammered by imperial remnants, after the New Republic collapsed too far to stop all the tattered shreds of once-great Imperial fleets from sacking their worlds before dispersing into pirate bands. Now, the afternoon air is full of cheerful gurgling voices and the smell of fresh seafood, and arts and crafts of every color of the rainbow, and more that human eyes cannot fathom lie piled on covered booths. Jek shoves his hands in his pockets, and ambles along, eyes darting around. The minds here are less… frantic. Mon Calamari tend to be more placid than other species, and their calm cheerfulness, spiced here and there by good-natured bartering or the arguments of old friends is peaceful and soothing.   
  
Here and there, human families wander, getting snacks or purchasing fresh fish. Jek's stomach gurgles, and he drifted over to a booth selling skewered cuts of raw Pleska fish, the deep red cuts of meat rolled in a sweet, spicy, glaze. His hand dips briefly into his pocket, and, brows furrowed, he slaps the impression of a cred-chip into the vendor's webbed hand, using his hunger and anger at his own poverty to fuel the illusion. The salmon-colored Mon Cal gives him a whiskery grin, and drops the 'coin' into an open basket, before passing him the snack. “Thanks.” Jek grunted, then moved on, picking up his pace a little and letting himself slip out of the vendor's awareness.  
  
“Hey!” A shrill voice, along with a spike of hostile attention, lances into him, just as he takes his first bite. Jek spun in place, his eyes locking onto the girl, a few years younger than him, fists balled furiously on her hips. Her red hair falls in thin, beaded braids, around a face scrunched up in fury. “Don't you know that stealing is wrong?”   
  
Smothering his wince at the girls' shrill exclamation, and the way that the entire market seemed to still, Jek glowered at the girl. Some incredulous part of him notes the sky-blue tunic, emblazoned with a cartoon of a Wookie, arms spread wide, and captioned with 'Wookies give the best hugs.' Did the designer ever actually meet a Wookie? “What do you mean, stealing? I paid for it.” He pushed his will into his words, and the red-headed girl's eyes go wide, then narrow.  
  
“Liar.” She snarls, and spins in place, beads cracking in her braids. “MOOOM!” At her bellow, far too loud for such a small girl, Jek bolts, dodging between passengers, aiming for a gap in the stalls, just a few dozen meters away, that leads into an alley. From there, he can – the toe of his boot catches in the dirt somehow, and Jek topples to the ground, Pleska skewer bouncing away on the dusty ground. He barely manages to get his hands under him when a heavy weight landed on his back, knocking him back down and driving the air out of his lungs. “I caught him!” The girl on his back trills, and Jek groans, turning to see a pair of thick spacer's boots.  
  
“Eki Cantol, what on earth are you doing?” the spacer snaps, her voice filled with concern. “Get off him!”  
  
“But Mom, he stole some food!” The girl – Eki – whined, although she does get off his back. “He acted like he paid for it but there wasn't anything there!” A cold chill settled over Jek. She saw? How? “I think he's a Sith.”  
  
“'M not a Sith!” Jek spluttered, pushing himself to his feet, brushing the dust off his heavy canvas pants and rib-length leather jacket. “She just didn't see me pay, properly.” Scowling down at the girl, who glares back at him with piercing eyes, Jek snarled. “And now you owe me a new Pleska skewer, mine was ruined.” He glanced at the spacer, and his heart sinks.  
  
“My daughter is not a liar, young man.” The look on her pale face is pure mother, and it hurts, scraping the scabs off long-healed wounds in his soul. Jek gritted his teeth in a grimace. “And while I'm sure you're not a _Sith_ ,” She spits the word with more vitriol than the old men at the veteran's home spat the word 'Imperial', “I believe her when she says you didn't pay.”  
  
“I paid, I swear.” Jek has a good sabaac face, he knows he does. His dad always believes him, and his classmates, even the adult staff members. But he can tell instantly that this woman doesn't buy it.  
  
“Mom, he's using the Force.” Eki whispered, and her mother's eyes narrow.  
  
“I see.” She looked him up and down, and her lips pressed together tightly. “Do you have a teacher?”  
  
“I just got out of school. My teacher there is M8-L13.” Jek gave her his best charming grin. “And I don't know what you mean by 'the Force.'” That much, at least, is true. He's never heard of it, but… Jek ruthlessly fed his growing fear into the flame of his power. “I'm just on my way home.”  
  
The woman's eyes flutter a bit. “You're just on...” She shook her head sharply, scowling. “Don't mess with my head again.” Her voice is cold. “Eki, go pay the vendor for two skewers. We need to take this elsewhere.” The redheaded girl nods, and darts back to the fish vendor.  
  
A crowd is starting to gather, only to split in front of the two-meter tall hunchbacked form of a constabulary droid “What's all this, then?” It grates. Light glints off the durachrome accents on the dark green and red paint.  
  
“Just a misunderstanding, Officer. My daughter knocked over this boy, I'm getting it sorted out.” Eki's mom states calmly. The droid eyed her for a moment, lights flickering in its photoreceptors, then nodded.   
  
“Very well. Move along.”   
  
As the droid stalks away, the spacer watches Jek for a long moment, then her eyes go a little distant, and she scowls. “Kriff it all.” She sighs. “My name is Rebecca Cantol. I'm upset about you messing with my head – with everyone's head – but if you don't have someone teaching you...” She trailed off, her eyes boring into Jek's. He shook his head. “Yeah, I can't just leave that alone.”  
  
“I didn't ask you for help.” Jek blurts, before blushing.   
  
“Someone once told me that the help that is needed most is the help never requested.” Rebecca murmured. “You have a place to live?”  
  
“I'm not homeless!” Jek snarled, before schooling his expression and burning his anger. “I live with my dad.”  
  
Rebecca's eyes glint. “I felt when you did that, kid. It's not healthy.” Her expression softens. “But nobody told you why.”   
  
“Nobody's taught me anything, I just… figured some things out.” Jek jumped as Eki appears at his elbow, but the girl doesn't say anything, just stares at him.   
  
“That's impressive, kid.” The spacer says softly, before wincing slightly. “I can't keep calling you kid. What's your name?”  
  
Jek hesitates, but sighs. “Jek Marko. My dad's name is Tre.”  
  
“Jek, can we go talk to your dad? There's some things that you need to know.” Rebecca's voice was low and solemn.   
  
“I… I'd really rather not.”  
  
The spacer gives Jek a soft smile. “I get it.” She pauses, eyes drifting over her daughter for a moment. “Jek, have you been feeling… impulsive, lately. Like your emotions are quicker and stronger, and they make you want to act out.”  
  
“Yeah, that's puberty. 'm growing hair in funny places too.” Jek drawled, burying his unease at the question. Eki clapped her hands to her mouth and blushes, her olive skin matching her hair for a moment.  
  
“Do you find yourself feeling like you're the only one that matters, that other people are worth less than you, because you can toy with them.” Rebecca murmurs, ignoring his joke, and fingers of ice trail down Jek's spine. His head bobbed in assent before he can stop it.  
  
“Told ya he was Sith.” Eki scowls, crossing her arms. “Jek, it's not nice to be evil and use the Dark Side.”  
  
“I'm not evil!” Jek spits, and instinctively fed the surge of rage into his fire. The earth seems to tremble around him for a moment, and Rebecca and Eki both flinch as if they've been slapped. He almost bolts, but Rebecca's snapping voice stops him.  
  
“Eki, you apologize to Jek right now!” The girl flushes and mumbles something that sounds like an apology. Rebecca glanced around, and sighs. “Jek, I don't think you're evil.” She looked him in the eye, and Jek realizes that he's nearly her height. “But if you keep using your negative emotions as fuel for the Dark side of the Force, you could be. And you could hurt yourself, or other people, really badly.”  
  
Unbidden, the image of the Aqualish girl, hurling the remains of her desk across the classroom flits across his mind. The sounds of his classmate's pain as they pick themselves up nursing bruises and scrapes, that had been more amusing than anything else at the time, make his body ache in sympathy. He almost burned the pain, but… choking down the instinct, Jek turned to Ms Cantol. “What should I do?”  
  
The spacer smiled softly. “That's the right question.” She looked around. “First of all, let's get out of the crowd. Where do you live?”  
  
Jek grimaced. “The Stacks.” At Rebecca's curious look, he elaborated. “Bunch'a apartment complexes, partially subsidized. With my Dad.”  
  
“Nothing to be ashamed of.” Rebecca smiled softly, and Jek feels himself getting a little lighter. “Let's go. Your dad will need to know about this too.” He nods, and they walk quietly for a few minutes, Eki flitting back and forth between the pair and the various stands as Jek led Rebecca to the end of the marketplace.   
  
“MOM!” Eki squeals, from a few meters away. Her mother groaned, turning to see the red-headed girl darting up, wearing something that at first glance looked like a long, furry, fluorescent orange boa wrapped loosely around her neck. Then a quartet of bright blue eyes blink open at one end, and six stubby legs extend out of the fur in a languid stretch, before tucking themselves back in. The creature's sinuous tail twitches, then unfurls a broad three lobed pincer at the end before closing itself with a snap. “His name is Tookyl, can I keep him?”  
  
Rebecca groaned, “Eki! Not again!” and Jek can't help but laugh. 


End file.
